All that I am
by xElleCorrupted
Summary: I didn't know where else to upload this. This is confessions. Nothing more. My name is Elle, i'm fifteen years old, and i'm a victim of early bullying.


"All That I Am"

I wish it were easy to have bad thoughts of people. But it isn't. Sometimes it is, but then I imagine myself in that situation. Then the bad thoughts reflect on myself. That's why I don't like to think so awful of others, even if they're awful towards me. Am I too nice, or would you say this has anything to do with kindness anyway?

No, I'm not here to "sob my down-life story" to you. Not at all. This is confessions. I find it so much easier to confess things through the internet. I can never speak my mind; it's always against me. And I try not to speak; my voice is such a traitor. I speak before I think. Sometimes I believe there's a whole different person inside of me, because I feel like what I say to people, hurtful or not, doesn't reflect myself at all, or what I would normally say. I'm actually very kind. Too kind. Enough to get you bullied since Kindergarten. I remember back in third grade, I didn't have many friends. Not enough to invite to parties and have 10 people around you to sing Happy Birthday while you waited anxiously to blow out the candles. There was once a time and I still remember this, that after Physical Education we had to go up this small hill to get to the water fountain. There was only one, so you can imagine how long the line was to get a sip. Before I was even maybe, 5 students away, a crowd of kids surrounded me. I was with my "best friend" at the time, in front of me. I hadn't noticed the group until I turned around and one was holding a toad in their hands. Of course, as a child, it's normal to be curious. I was too curious. It should have been one of those situations where you knew what was going to happen and you just step away with that horrified face. But I didn't know. I don't remember how many hands were stretched, but a few grabbed my shirt and held it open while the one holding the toad brought it forward and threw it down my shirt. We wore shirts that had to be tucked in. Being the one of few that actually wore their uniforms (It was a choice to wear uniforms, and my mom was very strict on that), it brought attention somehow, I suppose. The kids laughed. My 'best friend' laughed. But you can easily say, "Oh, they're kids just being kids." Yes. Sure, why not? Let's think of that that way in the small-minded thoughts of yours. Never once to think that this could hurt a child's way of socializing? I was afraid of other kids, and to be honest, I still am. I pretend to have a smile on my face so they won't pull pranks on me or try to hurt me physically. No, by the way. I never told my mother this.

Which leads me to the fourth grade. I was sexually harassed by some kid, who was 13, going on 14. Oldest kid in the class, failed a few times. He had the reasonable sob story, parents were druggies, and so was his older brother. He lived in the hood, the poverty side of it. Yes, so maybe he has an excuse right, for doing what he did, because, "As kids, they start to learn from their surroundings?" Wrong. Absolutely wrong. He had no reason to do what he did. Not to me, not to anyone. He didn't have a reason to enter the girls bathroom whenever he wanted to, or when I was in there. He didn't have a reason to touch me, and bully me to the ends. I remember, once we had a substitute and he was making fun, as always. I had enough of it. All I could do however was turn my desk the other way, back facing everyone. The substitute didn't like this (we had our desks together) and he told me to move back. I tried to reason with him, but nah. One ear, out the other. As I turned back I can never, ever forget the smirk on that kid's face. It haunts me. I wish I could go back in time and just throw my pencil in his eye, hoping he'll get blinded. But I can't. No time machine and wishes are a waste of time. I've cried so many times in my room and in school, even in front of classmates who could care less. No, again. I never told my mother this.

My mother can say all she wants. But she doesn't know me. No one does. No one knows the real scared girl inside me who wants to cry whenever someone makes a joke on her. Yes, I'm weak. However, I can be strong when I really need to. I've gotten into fights. Not many, and none were started by me. Still, I'm not afraid to admit I'm a pansy. I've kept my emotions locked inside my chest, and mind, for as long as I can remember. This is the first time I admit _most_ of my hidden emotions. This will be the only time, I suppose, too.

I've cut myself before. Many, many times. You won't believe the bliss I felt when I did it. I cried in the process. I have two scars I left on my stomach and back, handmade by me. But the pain felt right, so truly amazing. In the end, what am I left with however? Nothing still. Back to reality to step behind the shadows that have haunted me for years. Yet, I'm pulled back into that habit. When my mother is too harsh with words. When the high school kids make fun, or whisper and glance at me with such hatred, yet know I'm listening, and that I notice. When my mother's boyfriend makes fun at me. The last time my aunt came, she noticed something fishy. She hated the way I kept everything bottled inside and didn't say anything (but not like a, "damn, I hate it so bad" kind of way, but in a "I care about you" way...if it makes sense to the very least). My mom's boyfriend was making fun of me for a good thirty minutes; meanwhile she was cutting my bangs that were messed up when my grandma tried to "fix them." I kept quiet. I turned away every now and then, yawning so my eyes would get watery. That was a good way to hide the crying. Still is, actually.

I can't tell people how I feel about something, or someone. My aunt's exact words were, "If you don't like something, tell your mom. It's fine." Yet, I can't. Why should I say something, if I'll get yelled at in the end? There's no point. Believe me, I've tried. Tried so hard, but my tongue is caught in the process. _No more_, I tell myself. _No more, that's enough_. Then the bottle's lid is closed.

This isn't a cry for help.

This wasn't uploaded for pity.

This was to confess the difficulties a kid goes through from early bullying.

My name is _Elle_,

I'm _fifteen years old_,

And I'm a _victim_ of **bullying**.


End file.
